Reading Charles de Lint has faeries on my brain, pixellated pixies popping out of ‘puters in my imagination, to pirouette en pointe across my palm before disappearing in a poof of glittery pink.

Talking with Sky has my head in 1875 Belgium, 1920 Paris, Spain somewhat later, and Havana in the early 50’s, and my brain bursts with fantasy images of intimate soirees with neurotic artists and denizens of penny universities, sipping coffee black as ink, armagnac deep as blood, and twice as sweet, or absinthe, in shades of emerald and pearl.

My brain floats free following the eddies and currents in the stream of consciousness, preparing me for sleep in much the same way that reading James Joyce always did when I was still in school, disconnecting thoughts and letting reason lie dormant for a few hours.

Darkness shrouds me from the harsh light of reality, and soft cool sheets cradle my descent into dreams, where faeries decked in vert et argent (Janet will know the significance of THOSE colors) whisper magic words in my ears.

We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.
— Shakespeare, The Tempest, Act IV, Scene 1

I went to bed with my hair pulled up and woke with a knot in my hair, and when I was in the bathroom this morning, I got toothpaste all over my favorite bra, and dropped my blusher brush in the sink and I could tell it was going to be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

At Starbucks this morning they had a raw newbie running the till (during morning rush) and on loop 12 there were stupid drivers who waited too long to merge into a single lane, and when I got to work there was a cluster of smokers directly in front of the entrance door, and they glared at me when I asked them politely to move. I shouldn’t have to walk through a cloud of cigarette smoke to get into my office!

It was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

The loan processing software I use at work kicked me out with three times (sql and divide-by-zero errors) forcing me to reboot and every file I touched was completely craptastic and they were out of apples and peanut butter in the cafeteria and there was no soap in the good bathroom.

(It was the kind of day that makes me want to blow off my real life and go be an itinerant street poet. )

On the way home, I made the mistake of returning a call to my mother (who’d called my cell from Mexico) and she spent fifteen minutes screaming at me because the company we now refer to as “Affordable FuckHosts” and it’s sister company “Affordable FuckDots” refuse to release her domain, or answer the email ticket she sent (we don’t respond to email – it’s spam) and WHY this is my fault is beyond me, and then we went to buy dog food, and I wanted to look at the fish, and one of the angel fish was cannibalizing it’s tankmates, and when we stopped at a certain quasi-fast-food place for dinner, there was an old guy ahead of us in an even older Mercedes flirting with the flustered cashier, completely oblivious of the line of cars behind him, and then I crunched my ankle coming into the house because Cleo pounced me and Zorro was between my feet.

It was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.
Fuzzy reminded me that some days are like that.
Even when you rhyme.

With apologies to Judith Viorst.

Taken from Tarotchan at LiveJournal:

Dear Sky,

You asked me to write about 65, and I confess, until a few hours ago, I had nothing but the half-remembered chorus to a pop song, ” ’65 love affaire.” Oh, I could talk about how 65MPH is a popular American speed limit (on signs anyway, I’ve found that actual drivers generally go 80 or 40 instead), or mention that 65 is the expected age of retirement from the workforce, but those have no real meaning for me. I mean, speed limits are universally applied to everyone, and the only time the age is a concern of mine is in connection with work – we’re not allowed to decline loans to people based on age, etc.

But the song was haunting me, and that drove me to Napster to find more inspiration in music, where I stumbled upon a recording of cellist Jacqueline DuPre playing Chopin’s “Sonata for Cello and Piano in G Minor, Op. 65” and I was struck dumb in a completely different way. I’m not sure how much you follow classical music, if at all, but Ms. DuPre is one of those brilliant but mad genius types, socially awkward, artistically amazing. When she played, she bared her soul, and you could feel the bite of the strings beneath her finger tips.

People said she played like a lunatic, because she rocked her cello back and forth. Many cellists since have done the same, and for some it works, and for others it’s simply a contrivance. Myself, I’m very still when I play, but a lot of that it’s because I have a 4/4 sized cello, and I really need a 7/8, or “lady’s” cello, because of my height, and the size of my hands. Actually, when I was shopping for instruments, when I decided to reclaim my music several years ago, I looked at 3/4 size cellos (celli is correct, but sounds stupid, so forgive the lapse in grammar), but the owner of the luthier I’d chosen emailed me and counselled against it, explaining that while he understood I was strictly an amateur, if I had any kind of love of music, I’d be displeased with the sound of the 3/4.

But I digress. I was supposed to talk about 65.

Anyway, “Op. 65” is the catch phrase that resounded in my head, and as a result I spent a lovely couple of hours listening to Chopin. Personally, I like the Bach cello concerto’s better, but Back can be a little too fluffy sometimes. Chopin’s more sensitive. Thoughtful. Moodier, somehow, and gentler, even during the crescendos.

While I was listening to DuPre layer her emotions onto Chopin’s I kept looking for more inspiration. The cello music reminded me that I snapped my c-string last summer, and haven’t bothered to replace it. I haven’t been in the mood to play in so long, that it hasn’t been an issue, but, prompted by the number 65, and half-remembering that there’s a kind of string that costs about that, I went looking for actual strings.

Currently, I’m using D’Addario Helicore Silver/Tungsten, medium weight strings for my lower two. My cello has fine-tuners, so heavy strings aren’t really a good idea. I’ve had a recurring issue with the tuning peg for the c-string, where I have to retune that string far too often, and I’ve had two C strings unravel after less than a month of use, so am considering buying either several cheaper strings (The D’Addario Helicores run about $30 each) or one really expensive string, to see if it’s mee or the cello. (I think it’s both, as I’m so afraid of the string snapping and hitting me in the face, and I don’t want to spend the money on an actual luthier rebuilding the peg box until I’ve had a chance to do a bit more experimentation. I know several other cellists who swear by Pirastro as a string supplier, but I’m torn. Also, every time I look at the website for Just Strings, I click on the Pirastro Gold Label link, and realize that I’ve always wanted a baroque cello. (The Gold Labels use actual gut as the core of the string, but are still wound with tungsten.) Of course, I’ve always wanted a Gagliano too, but I don’t have a spare $10k to buy one just now.

Still undecided, I decided to surf the web for instances of the number 65, and wait for a couple people from whom I’ve sought advice to get back to me. I came across this link for the Trilobis 65 floating home, which strikes me as a fun place to spend a weekend in, and reminded me that I went through a phase when I was nine or ten during which I wanted to be a marine biologist. I still have, as you know, an obsession with sharks, and I think I’d feel safe observing them from one of these.

And on that note, dear Sky, and with the knowledge that I was supposed to be in bed about 65 minutes ago, I shall end this, having enjoyed the journey of discovery I’ve just taken.

Thank you.

I say… And you think… ?

1. Newspaper :: crossward
2. Crucify :: the verse
3. Sausage :: and peppers
4. Handy :: man
5. Cloak :: and dagger
6. Drunk :: en Sailor
7. Fuel :: for the fire
8. Caress :: soap
9. Itch :: scratch
10. Vehicle :: motor

Like this meme? Play along here.

I have NOT forgotten the 65 challenge. I’m still composing my response. Just sayin’.

Came home from working concession at the show after the CSZ show tonight (and which was very funny, and enjoyable) with words spinning in my head, and lofty plans to sketch out a story that is intended to fill a gap in my SnapeFic series (as well as serve as a belated birthday gift for Janet, who always leaves such sweet comments in BOTH my blogs), and instead of writing, have gotten lost in netsurfing and sort of watching Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets yet again, to get the speech patterns back in my head.

But did I write? Nope. Not a word. Except here. Which doesn’t count.

(Have I mentioned that I love sentence fragments almost as much as parenthetical clauses and aliiteration? Well, now I have.)

I spent 53.25 hours at work last week, which mean, thanks to a phenomenal number of closings in May (I beat the threshhold number for the top level spiff. Go me.), as well as the oodles of overtime, my checks for the next two periods should be big enough to cover the Edge card I need for my laptop as well as an actual iPod and getting my highlights redone. Tech before primping though.

Fuzzy has an interview on July Sixth for a big promotion at work. Send job karma then.

Am still prepping for BLOGATHON 2006. I’m still vacillating about my charity of choice. So far the leading contenders are Habitat for Humanity and First Book. Any thoughts?

Am almost finished reading Spirits in the Wires, my second CDL book, about the Internet as a sort of faerie borderland. Interesting concept, love the characters, have become quite the fan of this author.

Have been up far too many hours today. Awake at 5:30, at WORK two hours later, although, there was breakfast. These last two weeks have really messed up my sleep. I’m NOT a morning person. But I’ll be starting July with an approved pipeline of like 25 loans, so it’s not all bad. And training liked my resume.

Sleep now.

I spent the day wrapped in metaphysical cotton,waking from feather-soft sleep to muted grey light beyond my window, created not from clouds but the absence of morning sun. It was false dawn which greeted me.

At work, there was an element of disconnection, as if I was observing events, but not really participating, at least until an errant sheet of paper sliced my right index finger.

With the welling of my blood came the sudden onslaught of noise and activity, as if the cotton had finally been ripped away, and I was once more part of the world.

90% of the time, I really enjoy my job, but right now, I feel really trapped, like I’m ready to move on to something new and challenging in a different sense than just, “Gee, how many files can I push through in a single day?” I’m not learning anything new, or adding skills, except that I did finally manage to untwist my telephone cord, but that’s hardly a moneymaker.

I’ve spent almost my entire life in the mortgage industry, and there’s nothing wrong with that, but I think I’m a little afraid to push harder for different opportunities. And the corporate part of things drives me crazy, with the minimum time at Company rules and the minimum time in position rules, and stuff. I mean, I understand that it costs money to train people, but they didn’t teach me how to process loans. They didn’t even train me on the software – I shadowed other people for a week until I had access, then largely figured it out myself. I mean, THEY KICKED ME OUT of new hire training because I KNEW TOO MUCH. So, truly, there’s no investment that way.

And there are departments suffering for people, where I would be challenged. Not to mention have more money AND better hours.

So while I still love the people I work with? Right now? Not loving the actual work.

Two AM.
Eyes open.
Ticking clocks
And falling rain.*

Left work at 7:15 on Friday night relieved at avoiding a mandatory Saturday again. Next week doesn’t look so good for that, as it’s month end, which seems to come sooner and sooner. We went to ComedySportz with the intention of JUST watching, since I didn’t think I’d get there early enough to help out with anything, but I ended up floating between the bar (concession stand, really) and stamping hands. I’ve never been able to be there on a Friday before, as I usually don’t leave work til 7:30. The show was funny, as always, with many many 12-year-olds in the audience, and the themes resulting therefrom.

Today, had lofty intentions of actually doing something productive, but all I managed to achieve was leaving a message for my cousin in New Jersey, who had left me one a week ago. Can I help it if I’m never home? Slept, read, slept some more, showered, went to ComedySportz again, and again did hand stamping and bar – we needed one more person, really, as the show was beyond sold out, and there were only four of us – we didn’t really have a greeter – but we managed.

After the show, went to the piano bar with some of the troupemembers – had fun singing along, but still need to work on not staying so internal – I’m not as shy and quiet as I end up being, really, and it’s frustrating. Still, I had fun. It started raining while we were there, and as we were leaving the lightning really kicked in.

The lightning, actually, was glorious – we were ooh-ing and aaah-ing in the car, especially when there were Dracula-esque flashes around the tops of the tall downtown Dallas buildings. Wish I’d had the camera with me. At one point on the ride home (well, sort of, we gave someone else a ride) a lightning flash illuminated one of the giant giraffe statues at the Dallas Zoo, which startled me, because I was geographically disoriented, and wasn’t expecting it to be so close. Was a cool effect though.

Stopped at Denny’s for breakfast food on the way home, as we haven’t shopped in eons. When you’re at work from before eight to after seven all week, things like shopping aren’t really easy to schedule. This week should improve – at least there’s no more training.

Tomorrow, I plan to sleep late, eat something reasonably healthy and not be shy at workshop. Wish me luck with that please?

*From Be My Music by Lee Curreri.